Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Book Review: "Heart of A Comet" by Pages D. Matam

Pages D. Matam’s new book is a model of becoming
the change you want to see, of living as ifthe revolution is over and a new world needs
building -- now!

Much political poetry, and certainly much slam poetry, is structured on the observation-and-complaint
model -- witness to injustice. In this age, when we feel as if we should have
made more progress for the people and the ecology without which we are doomed, these poems of witness are more needed than we
want. These poems turn our gaze out,
to a world made accountable: a prejudice hard to escape, a power relation
rusted into place, a history none of us can revise. The tensions of these poems
are usually between the speaker and the world.

For all that outward gaze, however, the world of spoken word and slam poetry is a real community of mutual encouragement, appreciation of
difference -- a culture where we become poetically honest in sometimes indecorous ways. Because safe haven is
made for that honesty. The slam is, after all, a game. The poetry is what
matters, the heart.

Heart of a Comet is born in slam, where the
broken in you is welcome, where you can and must name what is breaking you,
make it weak by its naming. The honesty of these poems is scouring-pad-to-skin
intense. Even for this context, these poems are permission and challenge to
turn the witness a little more inward, and the result is so transparent it
almost hurts to read:

When you wake up
drenchedin tomorrow’s amnesia,
your pulse still burning filled with troubling memories
…

that reminds you that
you are still human, that your heart is not a dandelion, so you must stop
scattering yourself to pieces …

You’ll feel beaten down
by the weight of your own galaxy
The shooting star emptying its clip into the sky on celestial drive-by;
But if we’re going to live on the shoulders of giants,
We will have to stop complaining of our fear of heights.

This poem arrives early in the first section of the book, called “Apology
of a Confused Tornado, Part 1,” and it signals much of what is to come: motifs
at once cosmic and personal, Matam's wit that interjects traditional and pop cliches into a confession of personal disaster, a sense of form that mixes and mingles elegantly and at will.

These elements mix with lines clearly in the slam form -- “But drinking more Absolute only made me more
obsolete” -- that roll onto the more difficult, and
arresting, cadence of a “fiendish appetite for earthquakes at the dripping
enjambment of a woman.” There are moments in these poems when the onslaughts of linguistic and
symbolic bounce are hard to keep up with.

But this brings me to the matter of theme. The poems present us with a man rebuilding his
masculinity from one fractured by immigration, linguistic alienation, racism,
victimization, and self-punishment to one still mending but radically changed.
A man who chooses to father another man’s son, a man who saves himself from his
addictions, a man whose god is feminine and for whom women have become whole and human, a man who puts
himself up against the imago of corporate
hip-hop and burns it to a crisp.

A series of prose allegories cast the poet
as Comet, the son as Sol, the woman as Sky, and the larger (unfriendly) culture
as the Fog. The tropes are clearly meant to place this personal drama on the
cosmic scale, and this conceit is well placed. When it’s your life on
the line, the stakes are cosmic, for you, for your little human constellation. The extended
metaphor supports the poetic tension of the
whole book. We are discrete beings, but we are also completely part of the
larger universe, each other. Our being affects all beings.

The allegorical Comet, paradoxically, zooms through the solar
system and lives in a city imbued with a fog of wrong ideas and dead or dying
hearts. Matam uses this allegory to think
through a transformation, the wrenching tear-down-to-studs that we hazily call “personal growth.”

The Fog has a number of problems with black men, with
post-colonial black immigrant men to boot, one of the deepest of which is the
matter of carnality, of sexuality. On one hand, an Anglocentric culture wants to reduce black men to their bodies, their sexuality
or their violence, and then wants to punish them for its own inability to see
much else in them. Matam’s honesty addresses this carnality full-on in beautifully rendered metaphors that are impolitely honest about sex, about the
gorgeous fall into the Right Here of the body.

But, the Divine Feminine can be an easy ocean in which to drown. This being a complicated masculinity, rather than the consumer-friendly kind, it exposes the abandonment that can hide in the worship of women as source, as mask. Her orgasm can be his false sense of value. These are not things admitted in the larger culture. Poems titled “Lovemaking Is a Flightless Bird in
a Burning Pit” are not the kind of poems about sex that men are “supposed” to
write.

On the other hand, Matam’s Comet reminds us that a poet bent on seduction,
especially for self-deluding purposes, is a dangerous creature. Embedded in the
realization story of Comet we are presented with a barrage of compliments few
women would dismiss:

The fire in your eyes
potty trained the big bang at gunpoint. The wrinkles in your hands taught
phoenixes of resurrection. I have a heart full of ashes ready to Holy-Ghost
dance anew at your beckoning call … Allow my lips to learn your bow-legged
truth, squeezing your parabolas into a symphony of waves … You make me feel
like I mean something.

These poems render
sensuality as spiritual revelation and as addicting escape. We witness a man’s
evolution from soul-killing abandon to tentative learning of love, to really,
really blowing it, to rebuilding from the atom outward a whole, more engaged
self. In charting this exploration, Matam gives us permission to say – out loud
-- that we know what That is. We are rebuilding ourselves for the sake of the
world we want to live in. Matam's poems are the
rebuttal to every thin, easy, profitable lie ever laid over the black male self
by an Anglocentric culture jealous of its status.

Matam is not working on the revolution in this book, but on what
comes after. He’s got witness, and complaint, and analysis -- he’s a master of
his genre -- but more importantly, his poems chronicle a question: If I don’t want to be what they think I am, or
don’t want to live my pain as self-destruction; then how shall I love myself in
a country that does not love me, and how shall I live my love as a whole life?

This is what I love most in Matam’s poems. Beyond the formal
dexterity, the complex echoes and refrains through the book, the bravely (pointedly) incomplete allegories of
the prose poems -- I love that this book is a model of becoming the change you want to see, of living as if the revolution is over and a new world needs
building -- now! We do need to live as if, and become our selves replete -- or we’ll just
make another muddle of it. More poems of evolution, more poems of enjoyment of
our new being and living, more witness of what is loving and nourishing and
brave.

… poetry is another name for heartbreak

and just like air
or a home
or a chorus
or a memory

it will fill
until there is no more room
to expand

and you must find
somewhere new to

inhabit.

Write Bloody publishes many page-stage poets, and page poets, and fiction
writers on the condition that they tour hard like an indie rock band to promote
their own work. Pages Matam is touring now, so buy his book and help fund
the tour!

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